


here's a truck stop instead of Saint Peter's

by fits_in_frames



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-30
Updated: 2007-09-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 17:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1557647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fits_in_frames/pseuds/fits_in_frames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He finds Dean with his eyes open and his mouth curled into a half-smirk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	here's a truck stop instead of Saint Peter's

**Author's Note:**

> _here's a little agit for the never-believer_  
>  _yeah yeah yeah yeah_  
>  _here's a little ghost for the offering_  
>  _yeah yeah yeah yeah_  
>  _here's a truck stop instead of saint peter's_  
>  _yeah yeah yeah yeah_  
>  {r.e.m. // man on the moon}  
> 
> 
> Spoilers through "All Hell Breaks Loose Part 2".

It happens in the middle of the night. Sam doesn't know precisely when, because Dean doesn't make a sound, but he knows how, and he knows why, because he can taste it in the back of his throat, before he's even fully awake.

He finds Dean with his eyes open and his mouth curled into a half-smirk. He doesn't cry, not at all. He thought he was going to, and Dean even bought him a new handkerchief for his birthday, which is tucked safely in his jacket pocket. He uses it to wipe a trickle of blood from the corner of Dean's nose, then stuffs it in his brother's front pocket.

He says a few words in Latin, closes Dean's eyes, one at a time, with his thumb, the one without the scar, and folds Dean's arms across his chest like an Egyptian king. He wraps Dean in a thin, stiff motel sheet and ties it off at his forehead and ankles with a couple of mismatched ties he finds in the bottom of his bag.

It's just past dawn when Sam carries him out the car and lays him out in the backseat. He doesn't bother to gather up the books or the guns or even his clothes. Most of them are Dean's anyway.

He calls Bobby when he's two hours out. Neither of them say hello, and neither of them say Dean's name, but they hear it, dangling in the air like a bumble bee just out of sight. Bobby tells him to take his time. Sam doesn't say goodbye.

*

He gets to Bobby's at high noon. Bobby answers the door before he can knock and lets him in before he can say hello. He's not really in the mood to talk anyway.

"I brought my own salt," he says when Bobby offers him lunch.

"Okay," Bobby says, and waits for Sam to go outside first. They haul Dean from the car to a little pyre Bobby has set up. He barely fits on it, and Sam almost laughs.

He dumps an entire bag of rock salt on Dean, and Bobby looks at him before dousing Dean with gasoline. He pulls Dean's lighter out from his pocket, clicks it on a few times, then throws it at the base of the pyre. Within seconds, the whole thing is burning, bright orange with black smoke at the top. It's too bright, too hot, and Sam has to turn away. He walks a little ways into the field, hands shoved in his pockets. Bobby doesn't follow him.

He absently touches a tree he passes, and his fingers run over a carving. He stops and reads it. There's a line, about two inches long, and above it is Dean's name. There's another line, also about two inches, about six inches lower than Dean's, and above it is Sam's name. He covers Dean's name with his palm, half-kneels in the dirt, and vomits, twice. Bobby's hand is suddenly on his back, but he stands up, shakes it off. He doesn't go back to the pyre. Bobby does.

It's almost nightfall when the fire stops burning. Dean's a stubborn bastard, even now, and they nearly singe their fingers on some still-hot coals when they gather up the ashes. Bobby puts them in a paint can and seals it shut. It's all he has. Sam doesn't thank him.

*

He drives south for no reason, the paint can sitting next to him on the passenger seat. At midnight, he turns off the interstate a truck stop. He remembers stopping here with Dean once or twice, and Dean said the diner made the best bacon and eggs on the planet. He pulls up and takes the can inside with him, puts it on the seat next to him. He orders bacon and two eggs, fried. He usually gets them scrambled, but Dean always got them fried, always sunny side up. He breaks the yolks and sops them up with a stale piece of toast, and eats everything on the plate, even though his stomach is churning. He pays the pretty girl at the front counter without noticing her name, and leaves, carrying the can under his arm.

He sits on the hood of the car, elbows on his knees, and stares up at the night sky. He hears a river trickling in the distance. Someone fires a shotgun on the other side of the interstate. After a few minutes, he hops off the car, brushes his hands on his thighs, and picks up the can. He carries it to the edge of the parking lot, and lays it on its side. When he's certain no one is watching, he stomps on it. The top pops off, so he kicks the can into the field, and the ashes spill everywhere.

He falls to his knees, the concrete scraping them as he skids a little. He holds out his hands and looks up at the sky, and that's when he screams and curses and sobs deep in his throat. He sits back on his heels, lets his arms fall on his thighs and he doesn't even feel the tears on his face until a wind blows through and the underside of his chin is cold.


End file.
